Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Things I Used to Hate More than the Patriots

I'm going to make a Super Bowl pick at the end of this screed but, before we get there, I need to devote a few words to how much I now hate the Patriots more than anything that I am forced to deal with or could reasonably expect to encounter on a daily basis. That obviously does not include unlikely things such as being swallowed whole by a python, going on a gluten free diet or being stuck on a deserted island with Bill O'Reilly and Keith Olbermann (I'll take the python). That does, however, include the following list of annoyances that literally raise my blood pressure and make me want to punch someone or something (probably someone). The Patriots have now climbed above all of these on my scale of loathing. In no particular order of aggravation:

People who linger in the school drop-off line. This fairly straightforward exercise is supposed to be like a bunch of paratroopers flying-out of a plane . . . not three drunks trying to get out of the backseat of a two door coupe. If you're someone who takes more than thirty seconds from the moment you put the car in "park" to the moment you pull away, one of two things is slowing you down: (1) Either you haven't successfully gotten everyone's shit together prior to arrival or (2) your kid(s) are too clumsy and inept to complete the simple act of climbing-out of a fucking car while wearing a backpack and holding a lunchbox. Either way, you're wasting your money on private school because you and your kids have already failed the entrance exam to life. (And yes, my kids go to private school because this unique combination of arrogance, condescension and limousine liberalism isn't going to pass itself down a generation).

My frozen kitchen floors. Don't even get the FGW started on this one. If you tried to walk into our kitchen barefoot right now, you'd get frostbite and be a double amputee before you made it to the toaster. The only reason we need a refrigerator in February is so we have a place to keep the fruits and vegetables from freezing. Sometimes I think about driving over to the house owned by the people who sold us this igloo and putting a flaming turd on their doorstep. Not so much out of spiteful revenge but more so I could experience the warm glow of the flaming turd near my feet. If only just for a minute.

Televised golf. Here's a golf shot. Here's another golf shot. Now here's a stat no one cares about. Now here's an interview with a guy who's not going to win. Now here's a tribute to a guy no one knows. Now here's Peter Kostis analyzing a swing. Now here's me sticking a cocktail fork in my eye. Now here's the ocean. What's that a hang glider? Let's track him for seven minutes before . . . wait . . . is that a dolphin? We'll be back after these words. Go to hell.

People who fail to assume that I've got shit covered. I have three kids, a dog, a full-time job, five current coaching gigs and I play golf at least once a week (it's warmer out there than in my kitchen). Not to mention, I'm trying to write this garbage on a regular basis. So when I pull-up to the gym to run Timmy's basketball practice and the door is locked, don't sprint over to my car, ask me to roll-down the window and ask if I have the key because you know what? Trust me. I've got the fucking key.

And on that note, over-anxious sports parents in general. It's going to be ok. Your kid falls into one of three categories relative to his/her teammates and competition: (a) awesome, (b) average or (c) terrible. If you have multiple kids and you're doing it right, they should get to experience every level so they know what it feels like to be awesome, average and terrible because that's life baby. One day you're the pigeon, one day you're the statue and one day you're cleaning the statue. This will give you something to talk about when you're driving them around for twenty hours a week. That is when you're not talking about how awesome, average or terrible all of the other kids are.

People who don't know when there in a fucking turn lane that's about to end (I've got road rage issues . . . really?). I'm not talking about the people who use the turn lane to pass seven cars before wedging themselves into traffic. They're assholes but at least they're moving with a purpose. I'm talking about the dipshits who ignore the three "Right Turn Only" signs and the blatantly obvious layout of the road before running out of real estate and making a feeble awkward effort to merge. I feel sorry for the companies that employ these morons. They're running at 23% efficiency and they have no idea why.

Untimely video buffering on my phone. You know what I'm talking about and, if you don't, then that probably means you're a woman and if so, welcome to the FGR and thanks for reading.

Bad caddies. Or even worse, bad caddies who think they're good caddies. Look, during a round of golf my head is already swirling with doubt. Driver or 3-wood? Draw or fade? Chip or putt? Beer or vodka? Should I even be out here? I should be working. Or playing with my kids. Or learning to speak Russian or Chinese. So by the time I machete my way through that jungle of insecurity and actually get a makeable birdie putt you, as my caddie, have two options: (1) Give me the right read or (2) shut the fuck-up. I would prefer (1) but (2) is perfectly acceptable. And if you try for (1) early in the round and get it wrong, you really better shut the fuck-up the rest of the way because you and your reads are dead to me. (And people say I'm hard on caddies. Eat shit).

And finally, I hate it when someone enters the bathroom stall next to me at work and immediately goes full chilli con carne. What the fuck dude? I'm trying to unwind in here. Maybe get a little reading done or, in some cases, just sitting peacefully with my eyes closed until I complete this transaction. Instead of coming in and dropping a dirty bomb on my serenity, how about extending me the common fucking courtesy of returning in five minutes? And besides, this is supposed to be a solo mission not a sidecar situation. Who thought adjacent stalls was a good idea in the first place? Fuck that guy too.

I think that about covers it for now. I'm sure I'll come-up with more between now and Sunday. Man, that was unbelievably cathartic. I think I'm ready to hug a caddie and make this pick with a clear head.

New England by 3 over Atlanta: The Pick - PatriotsLast week I made a fairly compelling case for why the Steelers could beat the Patriots only to have them show-up like a team coached by the stoned lovechild of Jeff Fisher and Marty Schottenheimer. Obviously that didn't work so I'm going to begrudgingly get on board and pick the . . . oh fuck it. I can't even say it. But I'm only picking them as a last resort/reverse jinx in the hopes that our long national nightmare will end or at least be suspended for a few months until they come back in September and start throttling their incompetent division again.

Maybe if I keep honoringthe Falconettes, they'll keep winning and save the world.

Before I wrap this up, however, here's a piece of advice for Falcons' Coach Dan Quinn and he seems like a very smart guy so I'm sure he already knows this but it bears repeating. Come up with a plan "A" and a plan "B." Then throw those away because Bill Belichik could stop those with his pregame speech alone. So come up with a plan "C" and a plan "D." Then throw those away because Belichik figured those out while contemplating an egg roll on Tuesday night. Then come up with plan "E" which borrows a little from plans "A" and "C," a little from plan "D" and ignores plan "B" completely (because plan "B" a/k/a "The Tomlin Plan" involved playing zone in the secondary which is just asinine). Then pray the refs don't screw you.Footnote* I live with four people. At least one of them has been sick and miserable for the past ten days. The most recent dominant symptom is an unrelenting cough coming from my wife and my oldest son that is worse than anything I can remember from times I lived with guys who had gravity bongs by their beds. In the horrible movie The Beach starring Leo DiCaprio, there was a part where a guy got bitten by a shark and barely survived only to live in a state of total howling agony which ruined the peaceful Utopian paradise that the others had created. So what did they do considering they were too cowardly to kill him? They put him on a stretcher, carried him to the middle of the jungle and left him there with food and water. Problem solved. I am twenty-four hours away from performing "The Beach Maneuver" on someone I love. Email the Fantasy Golf Report at fgr@fantasygolfreport.com and follow us on Twitter at @fantasygolfrep.